Precious Am I Not
by StephStew
Summary: A recluse's chance for an up hill struggle to break free. Or will she be consumed by a loneliness she can't control.
1. Chapter 1

**Precious Am I Not**

**(P.A.I.N)**

**Short chapters. I make no promises for a happy ending.**

**WARNING: this is gonna hurt.**

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><p><strong>Precious Am I Not<strong>

Sex.

Something everyone will experience; if they haven't already.

It's treated as casual by some, and an eye-opener to others.

The older I get, the more I notice there are only really two kinds of people in the world. People who have sex, and the people who never have.

Obviously, in this day and age, there's more of the first kind than the second. So, basically there's only one type of person. Sex-Havers.

And there's the category that I personally place myself in, but I don't count it as a real "kind" of person. There are so few of my kind that I feel I am "The Last Unicorn", as the Sex-Havers like to joke.

Tonight, after nearly seven straight months of being hole-up in my house, and never veering from my routine of:

Med school classes in the morning.

Unpaid internship at the hospital after class.

To my real job as an office secretary; where I actually get money after my internship.

And straight home again; where I live as a recluse in pure, solitary, solitude.

A few of my Sex-Having med-school classmates somehow managed to lure me out of my home to have a few rounds of drinks with them.

I go, so they won't think I story bodies in my freezer, and because I know I need to be around people more often. Even though it causes great anxiety to stir in my system to be in overly crowded areas.

The problem is, the Sex-Havers like to joke about sex. A majority of sex jokes I get, because yes, I live under a rock, but I still have the internet at home. I know things.

The guys complain about times when they've had one-night stands or girlfriends that wanted them to wear condoms while they drink their beers, and the women describe in detail how much better it feels when a guy doesn't wear a rubber.

I laugh and bob my head while I sip my cocktail with them and pretend I know the real physical difference between "bare-back" verses wearing a condom with a guy. But in all honestly, I haven't the slightest damn clue.

The people I'm with tonight don't know how "The 40 Year Old Virgin" is possible.

What they don't realize is that they're sitting with a "Little Over Half Way There Virgin".

I'm 24, in Med-school with these Sex-Havers, and I'm a _virgin_.

Call me stupid, but I still believe that I'll be swept romantically off my feet one day.

All offers of sex have been made drunkenly in bars by blurry-eyed men.

As much as I'd like to have sex and finally know what it's like, I know I deserve better than a meaningless screw by a sweaty drunk.

Being a recluse wasn't a choice, but it just happened.

With that, comes great barriers, walls that were built over time, too much time spent alone for far too long.

An unfounded reason for distrust in people was formed.

And herein, my problems lie.

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><p><strong>Twitter: StephStew1<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**Precious Am I Not**

Bitches.

They didn't sit next to me in lecture today. We always sit together.

We were supposed to be partners. A group of three.

Angela and Jessica sat two rows behind me snickering, while they made me look like a freak with an empty chair on either side of me in the front row of class. Totally not obvious, at all.

Just because last week Angela had the sniffles in class and I offered her a crumpled tissue I stashed in my pocket, which she immediately thought I used for my own sniffly nose.

It was crumpled because I just so happened to wrap my pear in it that morning, I didn't _use_ it and offer it to her. Gross.

Now I absolutely hate them for making me some kind of outcast.

I study better on my own anyway. I don't need to squat at Starbucks with them and laugh at the cute barista, and contemplate how good sex with him would be instead of going over notes and practice exams.

I don't wonder why I feel repelled towards other people. Look how they treat you just for one misinterpreted exchange. They give me reasons to avoid my own species.

Society made me a reclusive hermit, not myself.

When I get home from class I slam the door closed and throw my backpack at the wall. Followed by my car keys and then, cell phone which the battery disconnects from upon meeting the wall.

I slump to the floor in tears. Angry and sad ones.

Embarrassed. I feel stupid too. Like everyone could tell exactly what happened today; all eyes on me. Maybe no one noticed, or even gave a shit, but I still _felt_ like they all knew.

I thought I had friends. That I was getting better. So wrong.

See what being kind to someone else gets you? It gets you to feel humiliated, feel weak and ashamed of yourself.

Anxiety begins to built in my system and I can feel the stress of the situation intensify as I replay my exile over and over in my head.

I take deep breathes to bring my emotions down, and tell myself it wasn't that bad, and I should've expected it.

I don't have enough time to do what I _normally_ do when I feel stressed and anxiety ridden, which involves clean up time, and head to work. So, deep breathes are all I'm going to allow myself right now.

I don't have anyone I could call and talk to about bad days, or good days for that matter.

Telling people about my life makes me feel even more exposed to embarrassment and judgment than I already do; and that's when I hardly say anything at all.

School, the internship and work don't allow for in depth conversations. Not that I would ever have them in those areas of my life.

I wipe my tears and check my makeup in the bathroom before I pick up the parts of my phone and connect it again.

My hope is that today won't get worse because the outcome of that would cost me in the physical form.

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><p><strong>Twitter: StephStew1<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**Precious Am I Not**

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><p>I'm trying to write a Bella that has many, many, <em>many<em> issues. Most of her problems have no reason, they're just there. A lot of people are like that. And I think most of us can relate to that. We don't always understand why our social, emotional or mental issues are in us, but we have to deal with it just the same. So this is for you guys.

**WARNING: Bella has issues...**

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><p>I'm in a decent sized group of male interns, and I'm the only female of the group. We're shadowing a Histologist for the next month. White lab coats are on and clipboards and pens are at the ready.<p>

"Yes!"

There's an instant realization of what I just said, and upon looking up from my clipboard there are appalled, disgusted looks. How dare I have the audacity.

"_What's wrong with you?_" one guy whispers harshly.

_So much_, is my internal reply as I ignore him and read through the rest of the work on my clipboard.

Quiet people can be _real_ bitches. I would know. I'd be the first to tell you I'm a bitch because it's true.

I didn't mean to vocalize what I was thinking in front of everyone, but I was excited that I got the correct diagnosis of the patient.

The cancer in said patient metastasized. I agree absolutely that I shouldn't have blurted out anything given the grim circumstances. Again, I was excited.

The positive is that the patient is knocked out on painkillers, so they didn't hear me.

I'm not acquainted with everyone in this group. I haven't even _seen_ everyone in this group, but I do recognize a few from other classes I've had; which is bound to happen.

Many of these guys are smarter than me, but I'm determined to kick all their asses when it comes to diagnosing and identifying correct free-radicals in specimens.

After spending the rest of the day at the hospital and most of the group throwing daggers at me any chance they got because of my stupid mouth, I head toward the elevators to end this awful day.

Problem with that is the rest of the group is also headed for the elevators. I let them all go ahead of me and board while I look at my shoes waiting for the next one.

Just as I hear the doors about to close I look up and see the still angry faces from earlier….with the exception of one.

Standing in the back of the crowded elevator.

One face isn't angry.

It simply looks at me without any harshness. This face is trying to study me. I don't exactly like it. I've really been looked at in that way in a long_, long_ time.

Like I'm normal.

I don't know how to feel about it.

Our eyes met and I'm instantly back to looking at my feet again as the doors close.

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><p>I'm trying alternate tactics to combat my stress and anxiety from today's catastrophe at the hospital.<p>

I've tried to avoid turning to emotional eating, but a day like today has no other option. I've also tried working out and going to a run which helped for awhile. However, my schedule barely allows for me to sleep, let alone workout.

I'm trying to mend my ways. Something that doesn't include a pair of scissors in my hands and a rolled up leg of my sleep pants.

Me and my squeaky cart are currently parked in the junk food isle of the grocery store. On one side, there's candy, chocolate and popcorn. The other, bags and bags and bags of chips and pretzels of every shape, size and flavor.

I'm studying two plastic bags in either hand, debating on whether or not I want pretzel nuggets or the classic pretzel shape.

I don't know why I'm having trouble. Shape doesn't affect taste.

Screw it. I throw a bag at random in the cart. And begin to wheel away from the evil carbs.

One step and a glance up, and I'm seeing that face again.

He goes back to scrutinizing a box of popcorn on the shelf, like I didn't just catch him watching me.

Outside of the white coat, he looks so common. Pedestrian in his zip up navy hoodie and jeans.

I feel my anxiety building in my gut, and my adrenal glands working in overdrive. Today's idiocy plays on a reel in my mind, and I just want to die; or at the very least melt into a puddle.

He's never said a work to me and I feel an overwhelming sense of dread of a possibilities of things he could say to me based on what he might have witnessed from me today.

Stupid. I feel so stupid again. I know I _looked_ so stupid earlier at the hospital, just letting my mouth lose control.

Deep breathes. Breathes.

My hands loosen on the cart handle; which I didn't realize I was squeezing.

I'm not sure if I should pretend like he's pretending, and go about shopping like I want to, or if I should just call him out and get the awkwardness out of the way, so it doesn't have to bug the shit out of me later on.

Being a chicken-shit, I decide to forget approaching him and angle my cart to do a u-turn in the isle.

"Wait. Please?" He huffs out a sigh. He's not going to pretend anymore.

I'm frozen. Blinking at him. Not expecting him to react at all.

"Don't feel bad about today. We've all been there. Randomly blurting things at the most inappropriate times," he says as he pokes a finger at a popcorn box without looking at it.

He smiles just a bit, and I find it uncomforting. Now I know for sure that he saw how stupid I made myself look today.

I realize he's waiting for me to extend this conversation, but all I can do is wheel my cart the opposite direction and tell him, "Ok. Yeah. I won't."

"I'm Edward, Bella," he calls out after me as I round the corner of the shopping isle.

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><p>At home, watching T.V. sprawled out on my couch with my junk food goodies spread out around me, I can feel the come down in my body from the anxiety I was feeling earlier in the grocery store. The junk food really helps, but now I just feel guilty for eating it. Now, somehow, I'll have to find an hour of free time to go for a run this weekend.<p>

There are only two things that come to mind as I watch the crap on my television screen…

I can't stop thinking about popcorn.

And the fact that….

He knows my name.

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><p><strong>Twitter: StephStew1<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

**I know, I know. I'm a TERRIBLE updater. I have no schedule, updates are very random and rare. You guys hate me.**

_I'm **STILL** trying to write a Bella that has many, many, many issues. Most of her problems have no reason, they're just there. A lot of people are like that. And I think most of us can relate to that. We don't always understand why our social, emotional or mental issues are in us, but we have to deal with it just the same. So this is for you guys._

As always,

**WARNING: It's going to be brutal. Bella doesn't have it all together.**

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><p>Console.<p>

He was trying to console me. Edward. At the grocery store.

His words to me. He knew I was beating myself up over what happened on the floor of the hospital. Making a fucking ass out of myself.

It shouldn't be so foreign to me, but it is. I can't remember a time when I was consoled, not truly at least.

A skinned knee as a child, yes. But in my walking, adult life? No.

None of those things matter now though. I don't think any amount of consoling from _anyone_ would do any good.

Exam scores we given in class.

Seventy-three percent. _Seventy-three!_

What the fuck happened?

I busted my ass studying. And I have a photographic memory; which, apparently having that particular "gift" isn't as fail proof as they say. You can still bomb a test.

Admittedly, I was distracted by things. Two things.

One. Jessica and Angela being complete cunts.

We never went back into being a study group. Which, I didn't think we ever would. I rather enjoyed studying on my own. Just like old times.

The small positive I have to glean from this is that, from the look I saw on Jessica and Angela's faces, they didn't do so hot on their exam either.

See. Sex clouds the mind and leads you astray from your goals. I recommend they stop lusting after the guy at the coffee shop.

Actually, no. No I don't. Those bitches can fail.

Work at the office is usually where I leave my school shift at the door. But, since I got my score, I've been carrying around this defeated feeling in my chest since I sat at my front desk.

My mind keeps focusing on a pair of dull-bladed scissors that I have waiting for me at home, calling my name. The only punishment that will free me of the weight pressing down on my chest and shoulders. The weight of being a complete failure. The weight will drain out through the cuts I make on my skin, and I'll be lighter for it. The pressure valve will be released through the only way I know how. The only way I've managed for years.

I feel even worse because I know people at work can tell. I'm not as wide-eyed and smiley, pleasant as I normally am when I'm here.

People can tell, but no one asks. I don't expect them to since it's a fast-paced environment.

Nearly everyone that works here stops by my desk multiple times a day. I know everyone, and they me. On a professional work basis anyway.

A half hour before the work day is over, Rose Hale, personal assistant to Royce King, flops a file on my desk, causing me to look at her with twisted lips and a raised eyebrow.

She leans in conspiratorially with her hands braced in front of her, eyes piercing straight into my own, "Let's go out tonight. You and me. Whadd'ya say, are you free?"

"Oh…," I quickly weigh everything in the matter of seconds. Go or don't go? "Sure."

"Awesome!

Once settled in our seats at a tall bar table with out drinks at EmJay's, Rose lets me in on a little secret.

"Okay, so there's a musician performing tonight that me and a friend of mine were suppsed to being seeing tonight, but Alice- that _bitch_- bailed on me, so I had an extra ticket for tonight."

"Oh. I'm sorry. I wished she could've been here instead of me." I look down into my drink as I sip, not meeting her eyes.

Rose, in an instant reaches across the table and slaps me on the elbow, jostling the drink I'm sipping. I choke a little from the surprise of her attack and set my drink down, giving her the silent 'what-the-hell' look.

She points a boney finger at me, "Don't do that shit. I would've asked you to come even if Alice did show."

I guess you can say Rose knows me, without actually _knowing_ me. I'm glad. She's kinda really awesome. We've worked together for a few years now; but have never gone outside of holiday work parties to hang out.

"Though, it's true I didn't want to come alone and look like a total loser." She looks at me a little guiltily.

I smile, letting her know I get it, cause I do. I wouldn't have the guts to do anything solo either. Girlfriends have a purpose.

She shrugs, stirring her drink, "There's this guy…" She blushes a bit, and I can see why she's named Rose.

I make a guess, "The musician?"

How cute she is when she's being shy. She shakes her head quickly, rolling her eyes, but tries to down-play her smile as she discreetly tilts her head back towards the bar and pokes her thumb over her shoulder.

"White T-shirt," she clarifies.

I lean to the side and look past her to the bar.

There's two guys there. One is a tall Native American with short hair, and the other is also tall, but with light skin and dark hair and adorable dimples; _white t-shirt._ Both are well built, but not overly so.

I look back to Rose who is gnawing on her nails. My only reply is a long, low whistle.

"I know, right!"

I smile around the straw of my drink as I sip.

"Alice was supposed to give me a pep-talk. Tonight was going to be the night I finally talked to him."

I'm confused. Is she kidding me right now?

"What? So…you like him, but you haven't talked to him? Why not?"

Rose huffs and her shoulders slump, "I don't know…Do you think he'd go for someone like me?"

Now I _know_ she's fucking with me.

"Rose, I'm about to smack you upside the head. What do you mean, _someone like me_? I'm not even a lesbian and I'd go for someone like you."

_Oh, Bella, stop drinking. STOP. _

Rose laughs, and I'm thanking my lucky stars that she doesn't think I'm a fucking lunatic for a comment like that.

"Oh, Bella, don't you see? Attractive, flirty bartenders is what draws the female customers in. It's a business tactic. I don't want to look like one of _those_ girls, you know? The ones that fall for the 'hot bartender' shit. Not to _him._"

I tell her an observation that I've made since we got here.

"Well, a startling difference between you and _those_ kind of girls is that, you're not over there letting you're boobs spill all over the place." I point toward the bar, and she turns around to look.

Three women, sitting at different locations at the bar are independently vying for the attention of either bartender that will give them any notice.

Rose and I are both smart enough to know that the bartenders will have to act appreciatively towards the women's lusting if they want to make good tips.

Out of nowhere, the one wearing the white T-shirt glances up at our table and smiles a giant smile and turns away to speak with the other bartender who is turned away from us for a moment. After an short exchange of words the Native American looks over his shoulder and smiles at our table as well.

I turn around behind me, to see if these smiles from the bartenders are meant for someone else. I see nothing, and turn back to face forward just in time to see white T-shirt guy gives Rose a _so totally obvious_ wink before taking an order from a patron at the bar.

Rose squeaks and faces me, fanning her face, "Bella!"

She's so cute when he's nervous and excited, flustered even. I just laugh. Still in disbelief that this beautiful lady in front of me can feel so insecure and that she can't see what I'm sure the rest of us see her as.

It doesn't go unnoticed by me, that the feelings that were weighing me down earlier, making my chest and shoulders feel incredible heavy from a bad day, has been lifted.

Any maybe, just maybe, I have another option.

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><p><strong>Twitter: StephStew1<strong>

**Did you catch the name of the Bar? **

**EmJay**

Emmett and Jay (Jacob)

Or as in M.J. (Michael Jackson)

It's all a play on the words.

Don't worrry, I don't believe in none of that Jacob/Bella shit. But I don't mind reading it in stories that aren't mine. I just can't write B and Jacob together.

Favorite MJ song is "Will You Be There" - cause Free Willy is awesome and I _**LOVE**_ the choir in that song. Oh man...


End file.
